Addiction
by SpoonfulOfArsenic
Summary: What a sick and delightful thrill.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd._

**A\N: Originally, I was going to upload this in "Scrawls of a Short Nature" but it ended up being too long. This idea just randomly came to me the other night, and I just had to write it. **

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><p>The pie is sitting on the counter, untouched since it was taken from the oven.<p>

They stare at it.

She doesn't know why he's down here, standing so still across from her.

He's not sure either, but he isn't going to leave.

Someone has to taste it.

Just to be sure the idea is as brilliant now as it was then.

By the look in her eyes, he knows. Knows she doesn't want to. Knows she can't stand the thought of human flesh inside her mouth… going down her throat.

It's almost amusing.

A woman so giddy at the thought of serving up such a meal, yet so hesitant to have it as her own.

He almost smirks. Almost laughs. But he doesn't find it very funny.

His fingers twitch, clutching at his coat.

His lips are sealed tight; his eyes are fixed; his breathing is slow.

He feels like he might retch.

But he reaches his hand out and takes the pie, lifting her of the burden.

A quiet "thank you" is heard, but he doesn't answer.

His eyes close and his lips part.

A bite.

A pause.

A furrow of the eyebrows.

"It's… fine."

He swallows.

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><p>He paces the floor, glancing at the dinner she brought him.<p>

He doesn't want it.

Every day, she brings him his meals. And every day, he hardly eats anything.

At least she thinks so.

He knows he should tell her. Knows he shouldn't let her go to all that trouble.

But he doesn't.

It's so _addicting. _

Such a taste. Such a feeling.

Under his blade… down the chute.

In his mouth… down his throat.

Such a thrill.

He sneaks down to the bakehouse.

Only one pie, so she won't notice.

If this weren't the way, he could take as many as he liked.

If this weren't a secret, he could indulge himself freely.

Devouring ferociously like a starved animal; it's almost like killing a man twice.

Licking his lips and savoring the taste; he's like a cat that's just finished its prey.

He could tell her.

He could enjoy himself over and over again.

But he knows he shouldn't.

He knows if that he gives into the satisfaction, he'll be completely hooked.

Unable to stop.

Gorging himself on human flesh like some sort of beast.

He shouldn't, but he wants to.

He turns to leave the bakehouse, but stops to turn again.

His fingers twitch, clutching at his coat.

His lips are parted; his eyes are fixed; his breathing is hurried.

He feels like his mouth might water.

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><p><em>Footsteps. Humming. <em>

She's on her way down.

The door is open. She didn't leave it open.

She stands still at the bottom of the stairs, too afraid to go in, and too afraid not to.

She goes forward slowly, nervously clutching her skirts.

Now inside, she can only whisper in sickened shock.

"Oh… _love_."

He's down on his knees, his hands buried in a mess of pie filling on the floor.

He's practically covered in it.

Breathing sharply, he looks up at her.

She can tell he wants to speak, but simply can't find the words.

He looks away from her again, down at the floor.

Lifting his hand slowly, he watches the juices drip from his fingers.

"… I lied," he whispers, sounding pained and pathetic. "It's wonderful."

She feels sick.

_This is my fault… _

She shouldn't have let him taste that pie. She should have tasted it herself, like any good baker.

But she can't change anything now.

Hating to see him in such a state, she wastes no time in lifting him up from the mass of meat.

He walks with her unsteadily, his right arm supported by her shoulders, and his left hanging limply at his side.

Before he knows it, they're in the washroom.

He stands still as she cleans his face with a wet cloth, only moving his eyes up to look at her.

"Mm… Mrs. Lovett…"

"Hush, dear," she whispers. "It's alright."

He feels like he should say something. Feels like he should move.

But he doesn't have to. Not when she's here to take care of everything.

To take care of him.

She cleans him up; dresses him in different clothes; takes him up to his shop and sits him down on his cot.

She puts her hand on his cheek, kneeling down in front of him.

"Yer gonna be fine, luv."

He looks at her.

As she stands, as she leaves, he looks at her.

_Only if you're around, pet._

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><p><strong>When I started writing this, it was just going to be a little thing about him having an addiction to human flesh, but there wasn't much to it other than that. The last part with her finding him in the bakehouse just sort of happened, and I'm glad it did. I guess I wasn't satisfied with just a sick little idea, so I threw some Sweenett in there. :P <strong>


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